


Like the Bright Moon, We Have Our Darker Sides

by ShikiKyuu



Series: To Be Or Not To Be Completed [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark Marauders, Animal Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5638732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShikiKyuu/pseuds/ShikiKyuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius embraces the Dark magic that runs through his veins, while James is forced to choose between the pull of the Dark and his Light family. Remus is feared and ignored by his parents after being transformed into a Dark creature, while Peter's mind is fractured by the hands of his abusive father.</p><p>In a magical world governed by the lords of Light and Dark, the Marauders will have more than schoolwork to worry about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction: Sirius Black

**Author's Note:**

> The title is inspired by a quote by Kahlil Gibran: "We are all like the bright moon, we still have our darker side."

 

“Crucio!”

A boyish scream of agony echoes throughout a mansion: Twelve Grimmauld Place. The child of nine years curls into a defensive ball, his little fingers quivering as they hold onto shaking elbows that bury in the bony flesh of his kneecaps. His grey eyes flicker in and out of focus as the curse continues past ten seconds, his black hair plastered to his perspiring forehead.

After fifteen seconds, the Unforgivable is lifted. Sirius Black wheezes with his face hidden by short arms that still shake uncontrollably.

The boy’s mother pants in exhaustion as her twisted smile widens into a grotesque grin. Her voice is high-pitched and cackling as she taunts her son. “Maybe that will get you to listen to your mummy, eh, Sirius?”

When she walks away, a bounce in her step, the child uncurls from the fetal position and lays on his back, gasping for air while his fingernails scratch the hard flooring beneath him, waiting for the sensation of prickling knives to fade. With glazed eyes, he turns his head and glares at the family tapestry, specifically, the face with his name labelled below.

Sirius once enjoyed seeing it, feeling so proud to see his name alongside his parents and ancestors, but the day he reached his sixth year of age, the boy realized just what that placement on the wall truly meant.

As firstborn and the only male of the Black line bar his younger brother Regulus, Sirius is the heir to the Black family. While this is a position of pride to most, in the opinion of a child, becoming head Black is a responsibility he wants nothing to do with. Sirius’ lack of motivation may be considered laziness, but in truth, the boy enjoys the concept of freedom – travelling the world and partying all day and night, no political meetings, fancy parties, or petty mind games between other purebloods – but as the leader of an entire pureblooded family, that ideal freedom is inaccessible.

Sirius glances away from his label and sneers at the ones identifying three particular sisters, his first cousins – or his mother’s eldest brother’s daughters to be more precise – Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa.

If one of the three sisters had been born male, Walburga’s eldest brother would have been the one to raise an heir. A male child of their younger brother, Alphard, too, would have been chosen before the female sibling, but the man remained a steadfast bachelor.

The reluctant Black heir knows the only way to escape his duty is to be separated from his family name, just as some Blacks were before him, and the common denominator of their disownments: Muggles.

Young Sirius is a perfect Pureblood child of the Black family. He embraces his Dark lineage like all his relatives, and knowing the blood of his ancestors could be tainted by Muggles disgusts him. Already is Muggle culture bleeding into Wizarding customs, or worse, changing them altogether – the sight of carved pumpkins and candy during Samhain is the worst yet – and even more troubling is the upsurge of Light wizards, slowly gaining enough power to alter the opinions of the wizarding world in their favor. The prized Dark Arts were being stigmatized across Britain- even the schools were abandoning the Dark teachings, the renowned Hogwarts going as far as to require classes teaching the defense against the dark arts and not the art itself.

And had Walburga overheard her son’s inner thoughts, she would have been a proud mother.

But Sirius, despite wanting nothing else but make his father and mother proud, realizes the only way to avoid his fate as an heir is to feign sympathy for Muggles and all who associate with the magic-less vermin. That would be the fastest ticket to his ultimate goal.

Quiet shuffling of feet catches his attention.

With some strain, Sirius sits up with his legs crossed and smiles at a gloomy Regulus, the only person he trusts with his secrets. The eight-year-old reassures they’re alone by glancing around the room twice and then pleads, “Siri, why can’t you just tell Mother and Father that you don’t want to be the heir?”

“You know they will never break tradition, Reggie,” he answers. “And just think, when they finally disown me, you’ll be next in line. Besides, you’ve always been the more responsible one. You will become the pride of our family.”

There is a glint of conceit in the younger brother’s blue eyes, but it disappears quickly as he shakes his head stubbornly. “But it’s not my place-”

“Regulus.”

The usage of his full name abruptly cuts Regulus’ planned list of arguments, and with it, the entire dispute.

Sirius grins, clapping once. “Now that that’s settled, we got some more etiquette lessons to go over! You know, for when you take over my role.”

The older boy barks out a laugh as the younger groans in dismay.

 

 


	2. Introduction: James Potter

 

A deep inhale, the puffing of his chest, tightening in the shoulders and the curve of his spine, the contraction of his rib cage. A swift release of breath, the expelling of emotion and juvenile restlessness, the beginning of Occlumency, encroaching shadows blanketing images of childhood memories, his beloved parents swinging him about, large hands grasping his tiny fingers, boyish giggles followed by masculine chuckles and feminine laughter, a broad smile remaining in view until even that has faded, complete darkness signaling a cleared mind.

Minutes ticking – an hour, two hours – then a little boy pops into existence, his hair a spikey mess of dark brown, hazel eyes being overcome by a russet red as warm silver fire surrounds him, flowing from the soles of his bare feet to his waist and along the length of his arms, halting at each finger that had been bound by icy golden strings. Those ten digits curl into two fists, shaking relentlessly in defiance before stilling, the silver blaze passing his protruding knuckles and snapping the strings that float to his ankles, suspended in the air and bursting into particles of sparkling gold, mixing with the abundant silver.

Eight-year-old James Potter opens his eyes and slouches, breaking his meditative position and frowning in disappointment. He squeezes his eyes shut, pushing down the dread that had frozen him in place.

Fourth day of meditation, always anticipating thick, liquid strings of gold wrapping around his small form, only to witness the raging mass of silver fire – a Dark magical core – and the golden glitter within those flames, an infinitesimal presence of Light magic.

While it grants the ability to cast Light spells, it is not enough to identify James as a Light wizard like all Potters before him.

 _I am a damnable anomaly_ , the child thinks.

James stands up, pressing the heels of his hands against his tearing eyes, suppressing the instinctive need to bawl like a toddler, and shuffles his feet across the carpet from his bedroom to the closed door of the library, his sanctuary in this lonely mansion of the Potter family, where he could bury reality and swim in the comfort of fantasy, or delve into the wonders of the magical world he was born into, researching and endless learning, the infinite range of spells under the three cores of Magic – silver flames of Dark, white crystals of Neutral, and golden strings of Light – or study the bizarre, unfamiliar world of Muggles that manage to survive without Magic’s ever-present embrace.

His small hand settles on the door handle and nearly turns it, but the gravelly sound of his paternal grandfather’s voice stills him.

“You sure he saw the golden strings? We cannot tolerate a Dark wizard as the Potter heir.”

“Yes, Father, and he has no difficulties casting simple Light spells, so the chance of my son having lied is nil. With some practice, I have no doubt he’ll master intermediate spells before his Hogwarts letter arrives in three years.”

“Good. It would have been a shame to throw such a bright boy out into the streets.”

James backs away from the door, trembling, and bumps the legs of his mother.

Her arms encircle his waist, drawing him against her chest. “What’s wrong, Jamie?”

“Are Dark wizards really that bad?” he whispers.

She mistakes her son’s wobbly frame as fear rather than the despair it truly was.

“There is nothing worse than a Dark wizard,” she says, a venomous tone James has never heard from his demure mother. “Dark magic is the most abominable of Magics, you will be best to remember that when going to Hogwarts. Not even a school possessing our Lord of Light as its headmaster will be free from taint.”

James wants to retreat to his room and curl into an enlarged Quaffle and never come out, but his mother’s suffocating hold has his entire body go limp instead.

Not even his mother would approve of him. She would find him repulsive, a stain on the family tree, for something he could not control.

When he is released from stifling arms of hate, James turns his back on her and walks away to the gardens, clutching the loose robes around his chest area where he imagines his fiery core to be alit, calming him with its warmth and unreserved love, engulfing the invading light of gold that had radiated a chill more freezing than an iceberg floating along the Arctic.

How could the Light be good, when it only made him feel abandoned, despised, and so, so cold…?

He bends his little head back, observing the shadowed, layered wisps of altocumulus clouds foretelling an evening of storms, and James briefly wishes for immediate rainfall, to soak him down to his bones and have his bare feet emerged in muddy puddles, and maybe collapse to his knees and cuddle sodden clumps of dirt between closed fingers, leaving him as an isolated, dirty rock left to be climbed or kicked or stepped on, whichever method brings content to the followers of Light that surround him daily, expecting him to be as pure and disgustingly righteous as they are-

James shrouds his face with quaking hands, ashamed by his rancorous thoughts, because his family is kind. They are loving and proud of his studious mind, and yet…

He is the very thing they loathe.

…And he doesn’t know what to do.

 


	3. Introduction: Remus Lupin

 

“Let me out! Let me out, please! Mommy! Daddy! Please, let me out!”

A six-year-old Remus Lupin pounds against the door of an isolated shed that protects his fragile body from the heavy blizzard assaulting the metal structure, the subzero temperature of winter blanching his once pink flesh, the fraught desire for freedom bruising Remus’ two small, blue-tinted hands.

Behind the kneeling child is a group of European hares, springing about the confined space using powerful hind legs to rebound off stacks of boxes and locked chests, and one strays from the huddle, stilling beside the tearing child and angling its head to the left, cleaning its elongated ear between fleecy front paws, ignoring the human hand reaching for its back that hesitates before contact as shame and self-loathing sets in.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, finally petting silk fur with a palm and using his thumb and forefinger to brush the upturned white tail. “You didn’t deserve this fate,” and after a pained smile directed at the full moon through a barred, glass window, says, “neither did I.”

His arm is abruptly kicked by the hare, a violent wallop in reaction to Remus’ agonized cry, the back of his head slamming against the shed’s entrance. His clothes are ripped apart as his body begins reforming itself into a humanoid creature, bones cracking, breaking, realigning, limbs lengthening, fingernails and toenails becoming thick and long, sharpening into fatal claws, fur sprouting along the growing spine, dirty blond hair sinking to reveal a veiny skull, pale lips and a button nose morphing into a snout with serrated teeth dripping globs of saliva, and snarling a distressed wail, Remus’ werewolf form crumples.

When Remus’ human mind awakens at dawn, surrounded by grotesque, gnawed on rabbit bones, he sees a blurred figure standing above him. As consciousness clears away the haze of a torturous transformation, recognition and fear alights the child’s pallor face, and he jolts up, defensively curling in a corner. Only then does he notice the cloak that had been inducing the warmth he hadn’t felt since being thrown in here by his parents, which he is now clinging to with his tightly closed, trembling fists.

Remus continues bowing his head, his golden eyes peering at the legs swathed in tattered jeans and unable to glance at the man’s familiar face, with animalistic features he would always remember through his nightmares, and yet, unlike that night of pain and utter terror, there is no malicious intent. Even as a booted heel crushes a pile of bones, the boy does not flinch away, and instead, stares up into cold, amber eyes glaring back at him.

“Come with me, pup,” Fenrir Greyback demands of him, extending a calloused hand.

Remus swings his head to the side, burrowing his frozen nose and cheeks within the cloak the adult werewolf had given him.

He heard an irritated growl. “Do you believe a foolish man like your father will ever accept you?”

Memories of his father throwing looks of fright and disgust at the sight of him, and his mother’s avoidant behavior has Remus biting his bottom lip, causing a thin stream of blood to dribble down his chin.

“You will never find peace with wizards.”

“Peace,” the child echoes in a despairing tone. “How can there be peace with an existence like ours?” He frowns with a miserable, furrowed brow, uncurling from his ball and stretching out his legs, keeping the cloak around his torso.

“Idiotic pup,” is the immediate reprimand, followed by a gruff admission, “For most creatures, especially werewolves, an existence of peace cannot be attained without acceptance of one’s self. Should you listen to the willfully ignorant, a pitiful existence will be inevitable.”

“I don’t understand,” Remus mumbles, looking down at his wringing fingers.

There is a brief silence, a sudden tearing sound, and then two hefty paws come into view between his bare legs.

He bends his head back, and is stunned by the human-sized wolf in front of him, coated in course, obsidian fur, and its underbelly and hind legs a blend of white and grey with forty-two pearly teeth inside a subdued, whining muzzle that snaps shut and nudges the side of Remus’ head.

For a moment, he cannot believe the animal is Greyback, its appearance too much like that of a normal wolf, but then it transforms into that monstrous, nearly-hairless werewolf who had marked and infected him. He could no longer deny witnessing what he had thought a werewolf could never look like – a real, albeit humongous, wolf.

Remus understands now, and he thinks of his father’s hateful words and the similar vile that spills from wizards and witches alike, and…

…and he wants, more than anything, to become exactly like his sire.

He blinks and is confronted with the beautiful canid for a second time, lifting an arm and cautiously running his finger pads along Greyback’s wide forehead, scratching the base of his ears when the older werewolf acquiesces to the petting.

Outside the shed, a chorus of high and low pitched howls terminate their time together.

Greyback sprints toward the calls, his tail brushing along Remus’ right cheek, and disappears out the busted door, its seven locks fragmented and scattered about the whitened ground.

Remus follows behind with aching legs, his feet sinking to the ankles within the snow, screaming with an outstretched hand, “Sire, take me with you!”

He is greeted by more than a dozen yelping wolves, fur coats varying in shades of red, grey, and brown, enormous, yet smaller than the shadowy Greyback who towers over them all.

Greyback transforms back into a human, an instantaneous, painless process Remus longs to experience.

“You are not ready yet, pup. Until then… survive.”

Remus begs, “Sire, please!” but the pack is already leaving him behind, the obsidian canid in the lead.

When they are nothing but dark specks, the young Lupin collapses to his knees and wraps himself in the cloak of his sire.

 


	4. Introduction: Peter Pettigrew

 

The grave of his father is a special place for a nine-year-old Peter Pettigrew.

He would be gone for hours, unrepentant, for his mother is always absent from the house, at work, at parties, with friends, anywhere he is not, a lack of presence Peter no longer resents, an antipathy that drained long before his father had perished, and was descended and buried into the rich soil of fellow corpses. He no longer cares that she never comes home except to restock household essentials, and prefers his constant solitude.

One cannot question what they do not witness.

Peter drops to his knees, caressing the engraved name of his deceased parent with his left hand, his right dropping a rolled up newspaper that seems to be spotted by red paint. As his thumb brushes the ‘w’ of his surname, the nails on his fingers brutally scratch along the ‘gre’, chipping the edge of his nail plates, adorning a jagged look that he uses to gouge his wrist, squeezing the wound and pooling blood along the top of his father’s grave marker, watching as the thick liquid dribbles down smooth, grey stone and onto the ground below, soaking into the dirt.

His voice, high-pitched and breathy, whispers unsteadily, “I can only give so much, not that you ever understood that when you were alive.”

From his pocket, the child takes out a kitchen knife, severing the hem of the oversized tee-shirt that dwarfs his already small figure, wrapping his wrist with a rubber band to hold it in place.

A grin spreads across his face, his pearly teeth peeking through the sharp, vicious smile none would expect to see on an adolescent.

“I also brought you a gift, my dear father,” he mutters, mocking and cruel without a shred of sincerity as he retrieves the newspaper, unfurling it with a single, swift tug, revealing a bundle of five thorny, red roses.

While they appear to be normal flowers from a distance, peering directly down at the petals hiding the pistil, there are splotches of ivory, the remnants of once beautiful white roses.

 

_Tiny hands brushed along blood-caked patterned fur, top knuckles rubbing smooth circles along the kitten’s cheek and a thumb and forefinger fondling a motionless ear, the ear flap of its other ear nearly dissected from the base. From the head down to the tail, Peter’s fingers continued slipping into sliced crevices that came away with gore and gooey matter as he petted the animal, velvety fur sticking to his flesh in wet clumps._

_Perhaps he should have brushed it first…_

_He pulled the carcass onto his lap, cradling the kitten with an arm as he took a bloomed white rose and dipped the curled petals into an open stomach, drenching it a murky crimson, quietly cooing as if speaking to a creature still livened by its heartbeat._

 

Peter tosses the roses at the grave and stands, kicking the headstone with a deranged, victorious laugh bursting from his vocal cords, unbothered by the sharp pain in his toes within the confines of his trainers.

 

_He stabbed at the face-down body with various, excited strikes of a knife, unrelenting in his rage for the mistreatment, his fear of the magic powering his tormenter, his hate for the man who should have been his loving father, and the pain plaguing his bleeding, bruised body._

_He was finally free… free… free…_

_It was then, that the madness set in._

 

A soothing breeze ruffles Peter’s primrose hair, brushing against the tears that had escaped his wide grey-blue eyes, and calming his momentary loss of control. He stares up at the darkened sky where the sun had been quickly obscured, at the rainclouds overhead, and feels scattered sprinkles spattering his spread arms and forehead.

“Almost like a cleansing… but is it for me? Or for you… daddy…?”

He offered the grave a parting, crazed grin before skipping towards his isolated house.

 


End file.
